


Red Sands, Red Hands

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Politics, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Incompatible Mixed-Orientation Marriage (past), Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Suicide, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-21 00:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Redguards never forget a wrong and while he was born in Cyrodiil, Rustem Aurelius is of the Ra Gada, the Forebears. Now Rustem ibn Setareh al-Elinhir, he has found a purpose and a place. But the sins of his ancestors and his past still stalk him across the sands of the Alik'r, threatening his new life.Redguards never forget. And Rustem will have over two decades of cooling before his revenge is best served cold.But first he needs to help throw the Thalmor out of Hammerfell and secure his nation's freedom from the Empire that abandoned them before he can swallow the world-skins of those who wronged him.Patience never was one of Rustem's virtues. And the sands of the Alik'r will be as red as his hands by the time he's done.





	1. A Botched Assassination

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, suicide, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, adultery, torture, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage, child abandonment and child death. The other half of the equation during the post-Great War years, from Rustem’s perspective. If you’re curious, Rustem is heterosexual but probably on the aromantic spectrum.

In the end, it was more than a recognition of their relationship but less than a marriage. Rustem, as he understood it, was now the official consort of Lady Safiya bint Beroc al-Elinhir. His life in Cyrodiil was over, for better or worse. His marriage to Sigdrifa didn’t matter anymore. She could have sent a formal renunciation or something though after he’d sent a message to her.

Behind him, Safiya was sleeping the sleep of the sated in her wide low bed. Cotton sheets so finely spun they were like satin on his bare skin, the best wine and delicate dainties to hand-feed during lovemaking. A far cry from the marriage night with Sigdrifa.

_It wasn’t her fault,_ Rustem reluctantly conceded. _She didn’t want to be there and neither did I._

Not a hundred miles from Elinhir Redguards died, staining the sands of the Alik’r red, to slow the Thalmor advance for a few days longer. The war hadn’t touched the border with Skyrim, Helgathe and Taneth and the deserts making every inch of the Dominion march bloody, thirsty and damn horrendous. The Forebears, Crowns and Lhotunics fought as one now, abandoned by an Empire they’d bled themselves dry to protect. The war might be over in Cyrodiil but it wouldn’t be over until the last Altmer head was on a pike.

Up here, away from the heat and dust of the desert, the air was cool and scented with pine. Elinhir was about three days’ ride from Falkreath, the best source of lumber in three countries, and the border city had been built in a fantastical merging of Nord and Redguard styles. Safiya’s own home was an ornate confection of birch and tile, a pastel fantasy that concealed the murder holes with pretty fretted screens just as its owner concealed her steely core with silks and a smile. It was strange how a man who grew up in the cold austerity of Cloud Ruler Temple immediately felt at home once he’d crossed the border into Hammerfell.

Rustem pulled a robe around himself and left the bedroom. He was hungry and no doubt old Beroc would be up and about, wanting to talk politics. Skyrim was in turmoil after the White-Gold Concordat, rumour painting Sigdrifa as having a spoon in the pot, and there were Talos worshippers streaming across the border to Hammerfell. Some came to worship in peace; others to lend a hand in expelling the elves from the mainland of Tamriel altogether.

The kitchen was busy three hours before dawn. Neelam, the cook whose blood was better than half of Hammerfell’s, was overseeing the new Bosmer kitchen maid in cooking the morning’s spiced porridge. Rustem sniffed the air: cinnamon, cardamom, mace, nutmeg and allspice were familiar, but there was an oddly metallic undernote to the fragrance of the porridge. “Mixing it up a little?” he asked Neelam with a smile, helping himself to a fresh-baked loaf, fresh honey-butter and a bottle of milk.

“Mixing _what_ up a little?” Neelam asked, frowning a little.

“The new spice. Smells a bit like metal.” Rustem tapped his nose. “I once tracked a Thalmor agent by the attar of roses she wore.”

Neelam’s frown deepened as the Bosmer froze. “_What_ new spice?”

Rustem kept the pleasant smile on his face as he came closer, leaving his food on the table. “I think the new maid added it. Want to taste it for us, sweetheart? Everyone eats spiced porridge in this household and we wouldn’t want to receive some unpleasant surprise now, would we?”

The Bosmer tried to bolt for the door but despite her buxom appearance, Neelam had a grip like iron, grabbing her. But before the cook could restrain her fully, the Bosmer reached out, grabbed a handful of porridge and shoved it in her mouth. By the time Neelam dropped her, she was already twitching with a blackened tongue and blank eyes.

“Shit,” Rustem said. Now they had no idea who hired her.

…

“She isn’t one of ours,” said the handsome older gentleman in the fine cotton robes of a successful merchant. Beroc knew for a fact that he was neither a gentleman nor a merchant but a street urchin who made a fortuitous murder and learned to mimic his social superiors. If it wasn’t for the slightest burr in his cultured accent, none would ever guess his origins.

The corpse of the Bosmer woman had been searched, revealing the tricks of the assassin’s trade – needles, garottes, poisons and knives. Beroc could only thank the gods that she hadn’t used jarrin root for the attempted murder of his daughter’s entire household.

Safiya stood beside Rustem, thin-lipped but otherwise unperturbed. Her new consort still wore his sleeping robe, his braids tangled from sleep. Rustem was a handsome man whose slightly aquiline features and bright blue eyes gave him a touch of the exotic. As a warrior, he was better than Beroc had ever been in his youth. As a commander, he was competent but shied away from true authority. As a man, he was never truly satiated, never truly content. No wonder he swore by Satakal so often.

“Dominion?” Safiya asked in her light sweet tones.

“A possibility, but it’s a little too obvious for them. Dominion assassins are usually more competent than this.” The gentleman’s smile was edged. “Poisoning the entire household to murder one person is so… tacky.”

“Not one of yours, not Dominion, but too competent to be some random person hired off the street,” Rustem mused. “Morag Tong?”

“The Morag Tong only go after those who offend the mighty of Morrowind,” the gentleman corrected gently. “We have an understanding with them, we Children of Satakal.”

“I thought the Thalmor had done a good job of eliminating the Dark Brotherhood,” Safiya pointed out with a troubled frown.

“Only in Cyrodiil and High Rock. There is a chapter we permit to exist in Sentinel and another just across the border in Falkreath.” The gentleman’s edged smile turned grim. “Their Speaker recently got himself crucified as a Talos worshipper and was replaced by one Astrid. I _do_ hope she has a good explanation for this. We don’t have the resources or connections to operate in Skyrim and it would be a very great sorrow if we had to war with our brothers in Sithis.”

It was an odd article of the Children’s faith that Sithis, the Void-God of the Dark Brotherhood, was simply another name for Satakal, the Hunger of Worlds.

“Astrid?” Now Rustem was frowning deeply. “Name’s familiar. Got a description?”

“Of course. Blonde, quite beautiful, with a voice like honey. I believe she was some kind of religious warrior for Talos who got thrown out for not being a virgin or some rubbish.”

“Shieldmaiden.” Rustem’s tone was grim. “The High-Mother might have expected celibacy from her people but she wasn’t averse to selling them into a political marriage. I know. I was married to one.”

“Sigdrifa Stormsword,” Beroc said in understanding. Rumour had been scarce but painted Rustem’s wife – former, he supposed, though no formal divorce had ever been granted – as involved in the rumbling discontent of Skyrim.

“I’ve heard that name.” The gentleman examined his nails indolently. “I hear tell she is meant to marry one Ulfric Stormcloak, the ‘first Battle-Tongue since Istvar Tongue-of-Shor’, whatever that is.”

“You know how Nords can use a shout to dismay their enemies, right?” Rustem asked, his tone carefully even. “The Thu’um is… an extension of that ability. Most Tongues are like our Sword-Saints, ascetics who live away from society to hone their abilities. It’s said the language came from dragons in the time of Alduin. A Battle-Tongue – and the Blades had one, his name was Wulfgar – are warriors who get involved in the world. They can command the ransom of kings because with one Word, they can call the storm or knock an enemy down or rip a sword from someone’s hand.”

The gentleman nodded. “Thank you for the explanation, son of Setareh. It was said Tiber Septim could destroy entire fortifications with one shout before that Breton cut his throat. I suppose he was a Tongue.”

“No, he was Dragonborn. A human with a dragon’s soul, which explains why he was such an all-conquering piece of shit who was never satisfied. The Akaviri once served Dragonborn, and as the Blades, they served the Septim dynasty because they were Dragonborn.” Rustem’s tone was carefully even still; Beroc wondered why he held such rigid control when he was prone to wearing his heart on his sleeve. “That’s how he got Nafalilargus to serve him; red dragons, it is said, will serve those who best them with the Thu’um.”

“Yes, you were a Blade… and let us not mention those rumours about your grandfather’s parentage,” the gentleman said quietly. “While this history lesson is fascinating, I fail to see how it is relevant to Astrid and this botched attempt at murder.”

“It has everything to do with this,” Rustem said, the control over his temper revealing the edge of the red-hot rage that boiled beneath his careless demeanour. “Sigdrifa and Astrid trained together; she even tried to keep her friend in the Shieldmaidens when everything came out. We’re technically still married and while Redguards can be flexible about that thing, Nords aren’t. No husband, no problem.”

“A favour for a friend? Normally, I would commend such behaviour, but not when our ability to resist the fucking goldskins was almost compromised,” the gentleman answered, his own accent coarsening in his anger. “Were we not at war, I would send a message. Alas, I cannot.”

“Can Astrid be bought off?” Safiya asked calmly. “Rustem is integral to certain plans.”

“No. But there is a way he can be protected.” The gentleman raised his eyes to Rustem’s. “You swear by Satakal and are clearly touched by Him. I know you have done… jobs… for Beroc and Safiya.”

“My apologies about that, but the Children were still scattered after the fall of Taneth,” Beroc murmured in apology.

The gentleman waved a hand. “A Sword-Saint uses whatever sword comes to his hand in a time of need, Beroc. There is no insult taken or forgiveness needed.”

“You want Rustem,” Safiya said slowly.

“Yes. Not immediately – I too know of some of the plans in play – but once a child is born and confirmed as likely to survive,” the gentleman confirmed. “A Blade is not to be allowed to lie idle. The war will worsen before we win it… and then we have the Empire to punish.”

“Something for everyone,” Rustem said tightly. “But what about Astrid?”

“If the Dark Brotherhood attempts to kill a Child of Satakal, their assassin’s head will be returned in a bucket,” the gentleman said softly. “We will let this slide the once because Astrid is clearly new to her duties. But never again.”

Safiya’s gaze turned flinty and Beroc reflected that his daughter was a dangerous enemy to have. “What about the Stormsword?”

The gentleman spread his hands. “I will leave that to you. But remember, if she _is_ fomenting rebellion in Skyrim, she serves our nation’s purpose unknowingly. Better the enemy who is useful and predictable than the one who is not.”

“Then officially, this was a Dominion job,” Rustem suggested quietly. “That’ll make her relax and think we’re none the wiser. If you want to predict her, read up on Tiber Septim’s exploits. She’s always quoting and emulating him.”

His fingers curled into a fist. “There’s a lot I could have forgiven. She wasn’t anywhere near Bruma when Callaina died, so I can’t blame her for that. I could have even understood sending the assassin after me, personally. But to try and kill an entire household to cover her crime? No. _That_ isn’t forgivable.”

Beroc inclined his head. “The precise strike is best.”

“Perhaps you should have been one of the Children of Satakal instead of a Sword-Saint of Sura-HoonDing,” murmured the gentleman.

Beroc chose to accept that as a compliment.


	2. Hot, Thirsty Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, war crimes, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Rustem is not a particularly nice person.

_4E 177_

“You have no right to do this!” protested the Thalmor official as Rustem dismounted. “This land was ceded under the terms of the White-Gold Concordat.”

“Something we never agreed to. Something we reject with extreme prejudice,” Kematu of the Crowns responded coolly. The man wasn’t as arrogant as some of the na-Totambu towards a foreign-born Forebear, so Rustem managed to be civil to him most of the time. “Do you have any last prayers to make before we execute you?”

The Thalmor screamed something in Aldmeri and raised his hands. Rustem’s naginata parted head from neck like a knife through muslin.

“Put it in the wagon,” he ordered an ashen-faced junior Alik’r warrior. “The pile outside Elinhir’s getting a little small.”

He wiped off his naginata as Kematu approached. “We have three civilian staff and an Imperial ‘observer’,” the Crown observed calmly. “The Imperial’s being a little evasive about his origins.”

The civilian staff were Altmer and the Imperial was short for a Colovian, with fine red robes and a familiar profile. Rustem smiled broadly as he beheld them all. “I know the Colovian,” he murmured to Kematu. “What are we doing with the Altmer?”

“Executing them,” was his serene reply. “Who’s the Colovian?”

“One of Mede’s closer relatives. Decimus, I think. He’s closer to the Ruby Throne than Maro because Maro’s a bastard son whereas Decimus is a legitimate nephew.”

“Ah.” Kematu drew the single syllable out as Decimus blanched.

“If you kill me, Uncle Titus will take reprisals!” he blustered. “It’s treason to lay a hand on a member of the Imperial family!”

“Mede betrayed us first,” Kematu said grimly.

While they’d been talking, Kematu’s Alik’r had been executing the civilian Altmer and any soldiers who’d survived the ambush. “What are we doing with this one?” M’baru, a desert tribesman, asked of his commander.

Kematu’s expression was bleak. “What is the punishment for treason in the Empire?”

Rustem grinned darkly. “Crucifixion.”

Colovian stoicism was the last thing on Decimus’ mind as they nailed him to a pole, Rustem breaking his legs to speed the process as he begged for mercy. In the heat of the southern summer sun, he died quickly, perhaps sped along by some judicious solar magic applied by the priest of Tu’whacca. He cried until he was too dry to make a sound.

“You know this means we have declared ourselves apart from the Empire,” Kematu observed as they shared a flask of wine at the campfire that night.

“Sura-Mai’s been planning it for a while. Now’s as good a time as any to tell them to piss off,” Rustem pointed out.

“I’m not arguing with the High King. For a Lhotunic to see the time for Hammerfell’s independence is a little unexpected.” Kematu grinned, face ruddy in the firelight.

“The Forebears under Beroc got it started on his orders,” Rustem answered, drinking some wine. He preferred ale but the Crowns were big wine drinkers. “Whatever we were getting from the Empire isn’t worth our allegiance, even before the White-Gold Concordat.”

“You were raised in Cyrodiil, correct?” Kematu took the flask from him for another drink.

“Yes. My mother was married to my father Arius, who was a Carvain on his mother’s side and grandson of the Hero of Kvatch on his father’s side.” Rustem pulled his braids back and tied them with a leather cord. “The Forebears were trying to get in on the succession for the Imperial throne. My father believed _his_ grandfather was Martin Septim.”

He accepted the flask back from Kematu. “My father was also, to use the clinical term, bug-fuck nuts.”

Kematu laughed shortly. “You haven’t heard about my great-grandfather.”

“I don’t think he could out-crazy the literal grandson of the woman who mantled Sheogorath,” Rustem pointed out. “I’m pretty sure when he died, Great-Grandma was like ‘Fuck, you’re here. As if my realm didn’t have enough batshit insanity to begin with’.”

“I’d heard those stories…” Kematu pulled out a new flask of wine as Rustem drained the dregs in the current one. “About the Aurelii, that is.”

“They’re true. My father was a brilliant Illusionist… and absolutely paranoid, delusional and utterly convinced he was the rightful heir to the Ruby Throne. I couldn’t get out of there and away from my wife soon enough.” Rustem put the leather flask in the pile of washing up to be done. “I wish I’d been there to save my daughter though. She was crushed when the Thalmor brought the roof of Cloud Ruler Temple down.”

Kematu shuddered. “Illusion spells are of the vilest evil.”

“Agreed.” They drank from the flask in turn to wash the taste of the discussion from their mouths.

“So, you’re widowed then?” Kematu asked as he lowered the flask.

“No. She went back to Skyrim; she’d been on some mission to save the Tongue she married about a year ago.” Rustem smiled crookedly. “Ulfric must be a better husband than me if it convinced her to marry again. Or maybe she did it for Talos. She’s a Shieldmaiden, you know.”

“Ah. That is why you’re Safiya’s consort instead of her husband.” Kematu smiled ruefully. “I tried to court her once.”

“Kematu, my friend, Safiya could eat us both for dinner and pick her teeth with our bones without messing a pretty hair on her head,” Rustem said wryly.

“Yes, I noticed. I married a woman of the Crowns instead.” Kematu nodded at the wagon heaped with loot and Altmer heads. “The priests say we will win this war with the Dominion.”

“The Altmer are overstretched,” Rustem agreed. “We’re fighting on home ground, we have a lot of very pissed-off Legion veterans from Cyrodiil, Skyrim and High Rock lending a hand, and the Dominion lost most of a generation in the invasion of the Imperial Province. We will win, because the advantage is on our side.”

A scout came running up. “More Dominion soldiers to the east!”

Rustem used Telekinesis to bring his naginata to his hand. “We just have a lot of hot, thirsty work between us and our victory. Shall we?”

Kematu grinned. “It will be my pleasure.”


	3. After the Great War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, imprisonment, war crimes, corpse desecration and mutilation.

_4E 180_

Sura-Mai signed the Second Treaty of Stros M’kai after, with a pained expression, the Thalmor Ambassador had done so.

The war with the Dominion was over and the Redguards had won.

Now, Rustem knew enough about the politics to be aware that the elves had signed off because the extended war in Hammerfell was draining them dry and by declaring independence, their goal of breaking the Empire in two was achieved. After the debacle that was the Markarth Incident in Skyrim, Mede was too weak to put up an argument.

They’d still won.

So he cradled a cup of ale and smiled cheerfully at any Altmer who glanced his way. The Thalmor called him ‘the Butcher of Elinhir’, which was a fine title by Rustem’s reckoning, and few could look at him for long. By order of the High King his naginata was still in his room. He was to intimidate, not execute. Sura-Mai was assiduous about that.

What mattered to Rustem was that his child would be born in a land not at war, would have the chance to grow up in something resembling peace, and wouldn’t be honed from childhood to be the instrument of some other fool’s war. A chance Callaina never got.

Safiya, due to deliver in the next few weeks, was laughing with her cousins and High Queen Atoya in the corner. When she noticed Rustem watching, he raised a hand and she inclined her head, then said something to the other women that made them laugh the harder. He wasn’t going to ask.

Rustem sipped his ale. Skyrim-brewed. Trade was slowly normalising and soon Elinhir would be awash with the luxuries of four nations once again. In between jobs for the Children of Satakal, he could enjoy the kind of lifestyle he’d gotten to appreciate away from the asceticism of Cloud Ruler Temple.

“Rustem Aurelius?” The accent was haughty Altmer underlaid with an almost-Bruma burr.

“Rustem ibn Setareh al-Elinhir,” he corrected with the big tooth-baring smile that seemed to unnerve the Thalmor agents as he turned. “I haven’t killed any of your relatives, have I?”

The Justicar who’d addressed him was bulky for one of his kind, the sclerae of his tawny-old eyes unusually pale and his short blond hair somewhat coarser than usual. There was a roundness to his features that should appal any true-bred Thalmor. Maybe he was part-Bosmer; that blood seemed to be tolerated among the rank and file of the Dominion.

“Not for lack of trying,” the Altmer said ruefully. “But that is behind us, no?”

“Were you at Cloud Ruler Temple?” Rustem asked calmly.

“Only in the aftermath,” the Justicar said softly, eyes flickering with something dark. “I saved what I could and ended the pain of those who were beyond saving. Not all of us wish pain and torture upon our mortal cousins.”

“If that’s supposed to make me less inclined to kill you, it won’t work,” Rustem warned. “If you want to kill an Aurelii, go after Irkand. He’ll end you quicker than I will.”

“Irkand Aurelius was absent from Cloud Ruler Temple, then declared Immunitas,” the Justicar said in the flat tone of hatred. “It is an… interesting coincidence.”

Rustem very carefully concealed his expression with a mouthful of ale. The coincidences painted weren’t a pretty picture but he couldn’t imagine the loyal to a fault Irkand selling out his entire family. “He was probably killing your kind somewhere else.”

“Perhaps,” the Justicar said doubtfully.

“So, if you’re not here to make me like you or to cast suspicions on my brother, why _are_ you here?” Rustem asked, lowering his cup. “Peace or not, we’re not signing the White-Gold Concordat. We don’t love Talos here but we won’t hunt his worshippers on the say-so of elves who want to end the world.”

“I wanted to see what the Great War had made of you,” the Justicar said quietly. “For darker times are coming.”

Before Rustem could respond, he stalked away, vanishing into the crowd.

…

Safiya watched Rustem cradle Cirroc with all the tenderness one could wish for in a father and wondered yet again how she’d managed to bring this force of chaos and hunger to… perhaps not heel, but stillness and a willingness to go with her plans. That he was destined for the Children of Satakal from birth had been apparent, only the Cyrods were too blind to see it. He was self-centred and never truly content; the best they could hope for was a temporary satiation and the prayer he never turned on them. But she thought in accepting his innate nature, they’d found a balance.

_“Plans never survive the first engagement with the enemy,”_ the Book of Circles reminded the faithful. Rustem was not the enemy and had never been but he was also a weapon that couldn’t be controlled, only directed towards a target. It had been a danger to bring the two lines of Sura-HoonDing and his sister Iszara together alongside the Daedric and Aedric bloodlines of the Aurelii. The only assurance she had from the gods was that Cirroc would be untouched by the madness that stalked his paternal bloodline. Everything else was left to the throw of the dice.

“I know it’s customary to dedicate a child to one of the gods at birth,” Rustem said, finally looking up from the silk-swaddled infant.

“It isn’t so much a dedication as a calling upon the god to guide and protect our child,” Safiya corrected. “Sura-HoonDing is the usual patron of our menfolk.”

“Would Cirroc still be able to choose his path?” Rustem asked. “I mean, decide whether he would be a swordsman or a sorcerer or a trader…”

She knew Rustem had never been given a choice in his upbringing. From birth, he and his brother had been honed to become different kinds of weapon to their father’s hand. It was, perhaps, the reason why he hated authority – or being an authority himself.

“His path will be his own,” she promised softly. “But for the training as a Sword-Saint. Even if he never masters the spirit sword, the training will help him become one of the best warriors in Hammerfell.”

“I was married to a woman who was trained to serve a god’s purposes from a young age,” he said as quietly. “I know there’s plans for me. I just don’t want Cirroc to become some uncompromising zealot with no capacity for love or kindness.”

“Father is a Sword-Saint,” she told him. “He trained from ten to eighteen, as was customary. Would you say that Beroc has ever been forced down a path he didn’t choose?”

Rustem pursed his lips. “The old man can train him. I want to give him training as a Blade too – the athletics, the calisthenics and the breathing exercises. I doubt the dragonlore will help him much.”

“Cirroc’s initial training can be with my father,” she conceded with a smile. “But the bulk of his Sword-Saint training must be with another who isn’t kin.”

“For the sake of perspective, I know.” Rustem sighed and rocked Cirroc to sleep. “Callaina would have been thirteen this past Heart’s Day. She should have been planning to enter the Mages’ Academy. She could cast Telekinesis at seven or eight, you know that?”

By dint of ruling Elinhir, Safiya was more familiar than most Redguards with the Schools of sorcery. Telekinesis was a powerful spell that could only be mastered by a mage at the third degree of Alteration, if not more, with any chance of success. Rustem’s lost daughter would have been a magical prodigy equal to any elf or Breton.

For a moment, she allowed anger to roll over her as a wave upon the shore. A powerful sorceress for a stepdaughter could have been guided into seniority at the Mages’ Academy. Mowhra knew that Dengeir wouldn’t have acknowledged her as granddaughter once her gift for magic came out.

“Cirroc will not die for some fool’s war,” she promised him. “He will be mighty enough that kings will beg him to fight for them – and wise enough to choose his own course.”

Rustem bowed his head, clearly satisfied. “And I will kill anyone who intends otherwise.”

Safiya smiled. They were not in love but they understood each other. “And I would have it no other way.”


	4. Hands of Red and Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. I’m updating everything so I can avoid the final two assessments of this semester for a week or so, lol.

Cirroc was toddling for short distances and eating soft solids when the Children of Satakal came for Rustem.

He blinked as the blindfold was removed. Before him stood a black basalt statue of a man with empty eyes and open mouth, tattered remnants of worlds gone at his feet. Lesser statues depicting a black hand and a dragon with baleful ruby eyes stood at his back.

“Satakal. The God of Everything,” announced the gentleman who’d always provided such helpful advice to Beroc and Safiya. “World-Eater and World-Maker. The Void that the infidel call Alduin and Sithis and Padomai. The One Before and the One After. The One who eats the world so that a new one may grow in its place, as the serpent sheds the old skin to reveal a shining new one.”

Rustem bowed to the statue as he’d been taught.

“The Children of Satakal serve Him,” continued a masked woman in a light soprano. “Each life is a world entire. We swallow the lives of those who would choke the worlds of others, so that they may grow shining and new.”

Rustem bowed to the statue again.

“Do not swallow the worlds of the young, the mother, the innocent, the faithful,” added a third voice, alto or tenor, from a masked person of indeterminate gender. “Our hunger is endless, as is Satakal’s, but we are not ruled by it. As does Satakal devour the world-skins when time is due, so do we show restraint. We live through the gods and they live through us.”

Rustem bowed once more.

“Be welcome, Rustem ibn Satakal.”

Someone poured water that tasted of iron and copper over him.

“Be reborn, Rustem ibn Satakal.”

He was wrapped in a robe of red silk.

“Be known, Rustem ibn Satakal.”

Then he was turned to face the other Children of Satakal. Drums beat to the measure of his heartbeat as he was pushed through a gauntlet of clutching hands, women ululating as Safiya’s handmaidens had when Cirroc was born. He emerged into a sudden flare of light and cried out, someone catching him with gentle hands and laying him against her breast.

“You are home,” said the woman with the kindly voice. “You are the lull between the waves, the dark between the stars, the pause between the heartbeats. You are Rustem ibn Satakal… and you are My child.”

Darkness took him, wrapping around Rustem like a warm blanket, and he knew no more.

…

Hariq handed Rustem a cup of water to wash the taste of the initiation drugs from his mouth.

“You did well, little brother,” the gentleman said with a gentle smile. “Satakal not only approved, but so did His chief wife. The mark of the gods is upon you.”

Rustem rinsed and spat twice before speaking. “So, was that the Night Mother? I thought she was a Dunmer. But she looked like mine.”

“The spirit that the Dark Brotherhood calls the Night Mother takes whatever form is gentlest to Her children, as I understand things,” Hariq explained, pouring him a cup of ale and offering it. “But they grasp at the truth blindly, sightless children trying to describe an elephant in a dark room. Satakal and His chief wife are beyond our understanding in the flesh.”

Rustem gratefully drained the cup of ale. Barley-Beard Gold from Skyrim. His favourite. When he held it out for more, Hariq filled it again. “So what now?”

The gentleman smiled. “You return home. We will not be the whole of your life or even most of it. When a point must be made to Dominion or Empire, we will call upon you.”

It was a two-day ride to Elinhir. Rustem dismounted and left his horse to the stable-hand before taking the steps two at a time to the family quarters. Safiya was in the weaving room, clever fingers picking out a design in precious paper for her tapestry weaver to follow. From the looks of it, the tapestry would depict the saving of Hegathe by the Forebears.

“Cirroc is with Beroc,” she said over her shoulder. “The movements of a Sword-Saint will be learned until they are instinctive as walking. It is a game to him at the moment.”

“That’s how I started,” Rustem agreed with a sigh, perching himself on a bench out of the way. If he blocked the light, Safiya would chew him up and give the remains to the handmaidens for dinner. “I’ve been told I’m only on call if the Dominion or the Empire needs a lesson.”

“There are other Children of Satakal better suited to stealthy killings,” Safiya agreed wryly as she jabbed the paper with a needle. “But you are the executioner, the Red Hand of the Ra Gada.”

He leaned back, watching her work. “But I doubt you’ll be leaving me idle.”

“Of course not. There are many bandits on the sands and shores of Hammerfell. You will be sent to chastise them.” Safiya paused, her lips pursed. “I do not send you away to be killed, Rustem. I am not the Stormsword. Our plans are contingent on your survival.”

“That’s… an interesting choice of words,” he said slowly. “I trust you. Why would you need to reassure me otherwise?”

“Our intelligence network is finally operating again and the first agent returned from Eastmarch in Skyrim.” Safiya continued to make the pattern as she spoke. “I assume you heard about the mess in the Reach?”

“I did. Honestly, we should have reached out to Madanach,” Rustem told her.

“We would have, if he hadn’t fallen so fast.” Safiya moved the paper around. “I’m not even sure these Nord ‘Stormcloaks’ truly lost. Ulfric is in prison and has sworn an oath of fealty to High King Istlod, but his father died – of heartbreak, they say – and Sigdrifa reigns uncontested in Eastmarch.”

“Convenient,” Rustem observed.

“Indeed.” There was a subtle hardness to Safiya’s sweet voice. “She is my enemy because she tried to murder my entire family. A strike against you, I could have forgiven. Such is the way of the shadow war. But to attempt murder on my entire household to conceal the one death… That is the insult.”

“You’ve said this before,” Rustem pointed out.

“So I have. But I am minded to remove a weapon from her hands.” Safiya gave him a sideways glance. “The Brotherhood Sanctuary in Hegathe will be put to the torch. Only the Children of Satakal will exist as assassins in this country.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Rustem said slowly.

“Have I ever failed in what I set to do?”

…

Safiya succeeded and she failed.

The Dark Brotherhood was driven out of Hammerfell, with a lone survivor making it to Falkreath Sanctuary and telling the Speaker Astrid what had happened and why.

The resulting shadow war, called the War of the Red and Black Hands in the secret chronicles of the Ra Gada, saw several Children of Satakal die, including Hariq their current leader. But Astrid was truly chastened and driven behind the ramparts of the Druadachs and the Jeralls. Finally, she called for a truce.

It was close by the border gate of Hammerfell and Falkreath, a small cave once sacred to Nocturnal, who in the Reach traditions was the first daughter of Sithis. Astrid, a lithely beautiful Nord with long gold hair and a poisoned-honey voice, was accompanied by Nazir, the last survivor of the Hegathe Sanctuary.

Rustem had Jubal, husband to Neelam and the current leader of the Children, with him.

“Well done,” Astrid congratulated with a bitter twist to her full lips. “You’re more competent than Sigdrifa gave you credit for.”

“I would have been prepared to live and let live, but she had to try and tie up a loose end that nearly got my patron’s household murdered,” Rustem said with a baring of his teeth. “You broke the agreements between our orders, Astrid. That meant the points were off the swords.”

“I’m sorry. The girl we sent was… incompetent,” Nazir admitted with a grimace. “We’ve both had our casualties. Are you willing to talk?”

“The only agreement we will reach is one where Rustem and his family are immune to the Black Sacrament,” Jubal told them calmly. “They are essential to Hammerfell’s stability, which benefits the Stormcloaks in the long run, _if_ your friend can achieve her goals.”

“She can,” Astrid said tightly. “That’s all you want from us?”

“You are no longer welcome in Hammerfell,” Jubal continued stonily. “If a target crosses the border, let us know and we will take care of it for half the fee.”

“You’re kidding,” Astrid said flatly.

“All I’d have to do, love, is leak the location and password of your Sanctuary to Maro and let the Penitus Oculatus take care of you,” Rustem said with a toothy grin. “You’re on my shit list at the moment, Astrid. Killing you would irritate Sigdrifa, which would only make my day better.”

“We’re agreed,” Nazir said tightly. “I’m not dying for Sigdrifa’s grudges, Astrid.”

“Fine,” Astrid agreed sourly. “Just so you know, the same goes for the Children of Satakal in Skyrim. My country, my rules.”

Jubal bowed with mocking elegance. “You can keep Skyrim, Astrid. Only the Nords really want it.”

Walking away as Astrid spluttered with rage was definitely one of Rustem’s more pleasurable moments. Now, all he had to do was make sure Cirroc and his family were safe.


	5. A Very Naughty Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of sex work, sexual harassment, child abandonment and child abuse. Bringing this story into line with ‘Child of the Sky’ and ‘A Heresy of Storm and Snow’.

_4E 183_

“You are certain of this?”

Safiya’s tone was even and unstressed, her expression serene as she sat primly on her ornate seat of carved birch. She wore her usual silks of peach and rose, a few discreet pieces of embossed silver jewellery, and a snow fox-fur wrap against the chill of the winter winds from the Druadachs. Rustem envied her ability to remain calm no matter what the situation. His own blood churned with rage and grief and the reminder that yet again, he’d utterly failed.

“Oronrel is a better author of witty alchemical guides than he is discreet,” confirmed the mage, a handsome woman in the rich ochre and indigo robes of a tribal shaman from the Alik’r. Most of the desert tribes leaned towards the Crowns because they believed themselves all to be nobility but unlike the urban na-Totambu, they were more inclined to cooperate with Forebear and Lhotunic as no one could survive the sands alone. “I followed quietly, using Muffle, and overheard the entire conversation. Then when my teaching contract was done, I went north and confirmed the stories by paying the Thieves’ Guild. When I crossed the border into Skyrim, the mood of Dengeir was of fury, and it is known among the mages that he is utterly mad, so I wore the garb of an Alik’r warrior.”

“And now you have come to us,” Safiya finished with a sigh. “I do not know what to do with this news you have delivered us, wisest of the wise, but know you will not go from this place unrewarded. Speak to my steward as to what is suitable and if he will not offer it, return to me. You have done us a great service.”

The shaman bowed slightly. “You are kind, Lady of Elinhir.”

Rustem cleared his throat. “Thank you. I owe you a life. Name it and it will be swallowed.”

She smiled slightly. “It is known which life you will swallow. My husband died for an Empire that betrayed us, Son of Satakal. Swallow the one who betrayed us to preserve his own throne and it will be well repaid.”

With another bow she was gone and they were left alone in Safiya’s audience chamber.

“So your firstborn lives,” she said into the silence.

”So she does,” Rustem agreed heavily. “Gods above, but she must hate me and her mother.”

“One could hardly fault her.” Safiya sighed. “I wish I could stretch forth my hand and bring her here to Elinhir, Rustem. A mage of such calibre would rise high and fast among the mages of the Academy. But things are delicate here. The Empire has reluctantly sent an Ambassador as a foreign power, not as our rightful overlords.”

“I know,” he agreed with a sigh of his own. “If we reach out to her, given my deeds, it will ruin her chances with the Synod.”

“I will dedicate an agent to protecting her. She is not Redguard, but she is of Yokudan ancestry and my family,” Safiya promised softly.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Later that night, he donned his red and black robes, took up his naginata and went into the streets of Elinhir. There was an execution to be performed and for once, it wasn’t an Imperial or Dominion agent. No, this was a lot more personal and it was going to truly be a pleasure.

“Rustem,” Jubal greeted at the door of the Rusty Cup. “Why am I not surprised you’re here?”

“You know me. Some pleasures I can’t pass up.” They entered the tavern which served the best ale in Elinhir. “Where is this Kreathling piece of shit?”

“The backroom,” reported the barkeep as he washed his flagons. “He’s already been thrown out of Mowhra’s Pearl for harassing the workers and refusing to pay the House fee.”

Rustem rested the butt of his naginata against the ground. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.” Like Rustem, the barkeep was a customer of Mowhra’s Pearl, the best House in Elinhir. Its workers catered to the cosmopolitan Forebear or Lhotunic or the occasional foreigner who could afford its considerable prices. “You didn’t poison him?”

Jubal snorted softly. “He asked us to handle it. A tavern with ale that kills its patrons, however unpleasant, goes out of business very quickly.”

“Wiser man than me,” Rustem admitted. “But then, I’ve never been one to delay my gratification.”

“I hope for Safiya’s sake you learned _some_ patience,” Jubal drawled behind him.

“What do you think I am, a fucking Colovian? Of course I have… in that regard.” Rustem opened the door to find Balgeir, the older brother of Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath, snoring into a puddle of ale with drool leaking from his mouth. “Thanks, Amir. Now I have to sober him up so he knows exactly why he’s going to die.”

“Why bother?” the barkeep asked. “Even for a Nord, he’s an idiot.”

“It’s the principle of the matter.” Rustem paused, pressing his lips together thoughtfully. “But then, it is Sigdrifa’s uncle. The principle would be lost on him.”

Still, for propriety’s sake, he stuck Balgeir’s face in the horse-trough outside until he woke up spluttering.

“You’ve been a very naughty boy,” Rustem said pleasantly as he dropped the drunken womaniser, wiping his fingers distastefully on his formal robes. Executions required protocol, after all.

“Who the fuck are you?” demanded Balgeir, spitting out water.

“They call me the Red Hand. It’s my job to clean up messes like you because Hammerfell has very strict rules about trash on the public streets,” Rustem answered with a toothy grin.

“I-I’m the b-brother o-of-“

“A paranoid old shit who sired the worst harpy ever inflicted upon the world by uncaring gods,” Rustem finished. “That could have been forgiven because killing people for having embarrassing relatives would leave most of humanity dead.”

He tested the edge of his naginata with his thumb as Balgeir struggled to move back. “However, you were looking for an assassin to kill someone. For starters, it is _very_ bad manners to try and hire some tavern thugs for an assassination in Hammerfell. That’s what the Children of Satakal are for.”

“Astrid wouldn’t-“

“Astrid wouldn’t take the job because she knows what I will do to her and her merry band of murderers if she steps over the line again,” Rustem confirmed, licking blood from his thumb. “I’ve been a lot more merciful and patient than your family deserves, Balgeir.”

“Look,” Balgeir said desperately, “If you want the job, it’s yours! We need a brat in the Imperial City silenced!”

“You want us to travel to Cyrodiil and murder a child?” Jubal asked, utterly appalled and shocked. “Who do you think we are, the Dark Brotherhood?”

“She’s of age! She’s at Arcane University!”

“Jubal,” Rustem said softly. “I know precisely who he wants us to kill. I need to question him before we execute him.”

“Rustem?” the leader of the Children asked, confused.

Balgeir promptly pissed himself as he realised who the warrior with the naginata was.

“I haven’t been able to give you the news, but the daughter I thought dead is alive and a Journeymage at Arcane University,” Rustem explained. “She didn’t tell anyone who she was for, oh, eight years and it was only the Synod who figured out after the Birth and Death archives were finally sorted out.”

Rustem knelt by Balgeir, his voice very soft. “Was this Sigdrifa’s idea or someone else’s? You’re going to die, old boy, but your death will be far, far quicker if you tell me the truth.”

“We do not swallow the lives of the innocent,” Jubal said severely.

Balgeir was almost sober now, his blue-green eyes bulging out of his skull in fear. “Dengeir!” he shrieked. “It was Dengeir! He didn’t want a filthy witch-brat with his blood to exist!”

“He’s telling the truth,” Jubal said quietly.

Rustem rose and decapitated Balgeir with a casual sweep of his naginata. “Was he really trying to hire tavern thugs to kill my daughter?”

“He approached one of the Children who was posing as a bullyboy posing as one of the Children,” Jubal said. “He didn’t give more details when the Son pressed, but after the madam of Mowhra’s Pearl and Amir approached us about his behaviour towards women, I thought you deserved some kind of vengeance on Sigdrifa for her actions.”

“Give me a red glass pendant, turned out to be a ruby,” Rustem said, wiping his naginata on Balgeir’s tunic. “I hope this won’t cause too much trouble.”

Jubal’s smile was wry. “The crocodiles of the river have been going hungry in this harsh winter. They will welcome the meat and Balgeir will just… disappear. Dengeir will not dare to press the issue.”

“I wish Sigdrifa would know…” Rustem paused. “Would it be permissible to pass a message to her through Astrid that if Callaina dies, her life is forfeit?”

“I think it would be very appropriate,” Jubal said with a smile. “Perhaps it will teach her some restraint.”

Rustem didn’t think that but he wanted to protect his daughter as much as he could. Scaring the shit out of Sigdrifa would be a bonus.


	6. Oaths on a Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, war crimes, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage, adultery and child abandonment. This will be the last chapter in 183; there’s a massive time-skip coming up for both this and ‘Heresy’.

In the end, Safiya only agreed to a meeting with Sigdrifa to see the face of her enemy.

They met in a small Nord ruin in the southern Druadachs, soldiers and horses ready to winkle them all out if things went wrong, and paths clear to their lands so they could leave swiftly and unseen. Safiya brought her father Beroc and Rustem; Sigdrifa brought her husband Ulfric and a warrior named Galmar, who seemed more spouse to Ulfric than the Stormsword was. Astrid and Jubal served as arbiters, one for each side. That assassins should be the ones to keep the peace was an irony fit to make the gods laugh.

“Meat and mead, bread and salt,” Astrid, a stunningly beautiful blonde woman in red and black leathers, announced. “While we share this meal, we will be as siblings, and talk of peace together.”

“Let Satakal swallow this feud so we may be free for more worthy ones,” Jubal added. “Let us sit.”

Safiya studied Sigdrifa as she sat down. The Stormsword was a woman of uncompromising angles, features as stark and regular as an ancient statue, and even her strange armour seemed rigid and inflexible. But there was a kindred spirit in those icy blue-green eyes, one untrammelled by trifles of sentiment or mercy. Sometimes it was best to feed the lion so it would go away.

Unsurprisingly, it was Rustem who spoke first. He always dove into the breach and couldn’t stand to see Sigdrifa get the pleasure of speaking the first word.

“I was a shit husband,” he said with characteristic bluntness. “We should never have married. But I’ve never sent an assassin to murder an entire household just to kill one man. I don’t kill children. I _certainly_ don’t abandon them.”

“We had no reason to disbelieve Skjor’s word that Callaina was dead,” Ulfric rumbled. “You were not there for the end, Rustem.”

“Neither were you,” Rustem countered.

“We came close enough.” Ulfric’s rumble was almost like thunder.

“If Callaina wishes to come to Skyrim, there will be a place for her at Ulfric’s court,” Sigdrifa announced in a raven-harsh voice. “I _mourned_ her, Rustem. That she is alive is… unexpected. Balgeir was acting on behalf of my father, who… well, we’ve got a caretaker Steward now. We can’t remove him; Istlod’s loyalists block us at every turn. But he can make all the laws he wants. Nenya won’t enact them.”

“If you think I would allow such a magical treasure to fall into the hands of Nords that hate sorcery, think again,” Safiya told her. “If she wins free of the Empire and comes to Hammerfell, she will be at the Mages’ Academy of Elinhir. If the stories are true, she will be first among them soon enough, and welcome too. What life for her among the steel and stone and snow of the Nords who think only of Talos?”

“Somehow, I think she must hold both sides in equal contempt, and rightfully so,” Beroc said with a slight edge to his voice. “None of us had reason to believe her alive and given what I’ve heard of her childhood at Cloud Ruler Temple, I do not fault the girl for washing her hands of us all with a new name and a fresh start.”

Safiya flushed and even Sigdrifa looked chastened; only Rustem seemed unperturbed by Beroc’s observation.

“What was done has been done,” growled the warrior Galmar. “If she comes to Skyrim, she can serve as Ulfric’s court wizard; if she goes to Hammerfell, the same for Safiya. But dip me in gold and call me a Thalmor if the Empire won’t try to weaponise the girl.”

Rustem’s laugh was sour. “The Aurelii are indicted in Cyrodiil. They won’t let Laina anywhere near a whiff of power or authority. I wish she’d never been found out, honestly. Her life would have been easier in the Empire.”

“We will deal with the possibilities as we must,” Sigdrifa said grimly. “I want pledges from you that you won’t move against us, if we swear the same to you.”

“Only if you swear by Talos on the Sword of the Septims,” Rustem said quietly. “I know Shieldmaidens can break any lesser oath.”

“I’ve already got the sword.” Sigdrifa brought out an ivory-scabbarded weapon with an Akaviri hilt that Safiya realised was kin to Rustem’s naginata. “Will you swear on an equally sacred relic?”

“We have the Soul Sword of Cyrus the Restless, who defeated your Talos twice over,” Beroc answered with a wolfish smile. “No Redguard may break an oath made on it.”

“We’ll all swear on all the swords,” Galmar suggested pragmatically. “That way both Nord and Redguard gods are privy to it.”

They passed around the sacred weapons and swore the appropriate oaths, but one more surprise was left. When Rustem got his hands on the Sword of the Septims, his muscles tensed as he stripped sword from scabbard, revealing a broken blade of the same greyish-brown metal as his naginata.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said as the Nords went white as milk. “The old bastard was right.”

He resheathed the blade, swore upon Satakal, and handed it back over to the Nords.

Rustem rose to his feet, leaned across the table and patted Sigdrifa on the cheek. “Don’t worry, old girl. This Septim doesn’t want the Empire and he sure as hell doesn’t want the Nords in it if he did. Have a good day.”

Then he sauntered out as Sigdrifa Stormsword collapsed in a dead faint.

Safiya caught him outside, Beroc and Jubal following at a more sedate pace. “Did you know that would happen? If so, why didn’t you warn me?”

“It’s been a rumour for years that Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar were closer than Emperor and Champion,” Rustem answered in Yokudan. “But he became an Avatar of Akatosh and she mantled Sheogorath, so that kind of killed any relationship. I never believed it or cared if I did. I’m a Forebear of Hammerfell, not some robed prick who thinks he rules the world.”

She closed her eyes. “You know this means Cirroc can’t inherit Elinhir. Sura-Mai’s laws forbid it.”

“Love, given the way he follows old Beroc everywhere when he’s doing the Sword-Saint stuff, I have a feeling he’ll become a warrior-monk of the sword-singers if he gets his way,” Rustem said gently. “Probably the only way he could rebel against us two.”

She was startled into a laugh. “I suppose you’re right. I have several cousins who will serve as the next Lady of Elinhir.”

“I know.” Rustem mounted his horse. “It changes nothing for me… but you have to admit, I think we won here today. Sigdrifa’s just found out that everything she ever believed was a lie and that she’s been trying to kill a descendant of her sacred Talos for nearly ten years.”

Beroc laughed sharply as he mounted his own horse. “That was worth the ride. But to make sure she behaves, I think I’d better become the Ambassador to Skyrim. Sura-HoonDing knows we can’t let the Nords go around unsupervised.”

Safiya mounted her palfrey. “We have peace… for now. Time it is to turn our attention to a greater enemy.”

The amusement drained from Rustem’s face. “Yes. It’ll take a while.”

Beroc looked back at the cave as they rode away. “But we have that time, thank the gods.”


	7. The Soul Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. Moar Cirroc! Cyrus the Restless/Sura comes from Elder Scrolls: Redguard and is considered an Avatar of the Make Way God; I just upgraded him to minor deity.

_4E 190_

“Dada! Look!”

Rustem was sitting in the courtyard of Safiya’s home, repairing the leather grip on his naginata, when Cirroc cried out for him to see something. He glanced up, expecting to see something like a new stone or a sword-dance the boy had practiced… and his jaw hit the ground in shock.

Cirroc, now a ten-year-old with Safiya’s delicate features and a lither build than Rustem, was holding out what looked like a club in his hands. Nothing unusual there, since Redguard children often wielded sticks as makeshift swords in their play. But it wasn’t a stick. It was an uneven, flickering bar of misty light that looked like weak winter sunlight concentrated into one place, balanced across Cirroc’s hands like the sword-singers did when they presented their blades before a duel.

“Damn,” Rustem said hoarsely. “Looks like you’re going to be a Sword-Saint, kiddo.”

“I’m going to be the best!” Cirroc announced proudly. “I’ll find all the bad people and defeat them!”

Rustem rested his hand on his son’s mop of curly hair. “I’m sure you will, kiddo.”

That night, Safiya held a feast to celebrate the occasion, inviting the great and good of Elinhir. They dined on foods from four provinces prepared in the tangy, spicy style of the Alik’r tribes, sipped sweet wine and fine ale, and watched one of the visiting sword-singers perform such a virtuoso shadow-fight that one could almost see the ten enemies he fought. Though the Ansei were no longer as prolific as they were in the old days of Yokuda-that-was, there was usually two or three to every generation, and all of them were revered as the living treasures they were. All Redguards were warriors who wielded weapons as needed; but the Ansei made weapons of their souls, swords of will and intention.

Rustem was standing near the door to the garden, watching Cirroc follow the movements of Khurram, a sword-singer known for fighting with twin swords, when Beroc approached him. “We make all the plans in the world,” the old man, now in his seventies, remarked. “And in one swift movement, the heart of those plans destroys them.”

“I suppose Cirroc had to inherit something from me,” Rustem said, sipping from his goblet of ale.

“I suppose so!” Beroc laughed.

“He’ll make a good Sword-Saint.”

“Yes. But he was meant to be the Hidden Sword, as I was in my day.” Beroc shrugged loosely. “Before he goes to the monastery, he _must_ be dedicated to one of the gods. I know you have your reasons for delaying. But that delay must come to an end.”

“Not Satakal,” Rustem said softly. “The God of Everything isn’t for him.”

“Agreed. Our Sword-Seer did a scrying before she came. ‘The sword that is Cirroc will be quenched between fire and frost’, she told me. ‘He will be pure of technique until that purity is shattered by the wolf-lords of the centre-city, but in that impurity shall he find victory’.”

“Well, that’s cryptic,” Rustem said lightly, though he felt a thread of ice snake its way down his spine. “What happened to ‘get your washing done today for tomorrow it will rain’?”

“Any seer who could see that clearly would be the wealthiest person in Hammerfell,” Beroc agreed wryly.

“Leki,” Rustem said after a mouthful of ale. “I mean, the purity of technique is pretty clear. He’s going to be a great warrior-monk but some mercenary or guard’s going to set him on his ass _because_ his style is so pure. So let the Goddess of the Spirit Sword and the Aberrant Technique be his patron.”

Beroc smiled approvingly. “You have become one of us to see so clearly. Go fetch him. We might as well do it as once.”

The Temples of the Yokudan gods were always open, so it was no great trouble to being Cirroc to the Shrine of Leki and find a priest still awake to conduct the ceremony. “He’s a little late for this,” remarked the reed-thin older man as he donned his saffron robes.

“I thought we’d wait until he was of an age to show which god he was suited to,” Rustem admitted.

“He’s the lad who conjured the soul sword on his own,” Beroc told the priest. “I mean, I taught him the beginning steps, but he did it all on his own.”

“Ah.” Comprehension flashed across the priest’s face. “Yes, Leki will love this one.”

The sleepy, yawning Cirroc was smoked with herbs that smelt like bitter leaves and sand, anointed with oils used in the tending of weapons, and tattooed with the first sigil of Leki on the palms of his hands. Beroc had told Rustem that the herbs had painkilling and soporific effects, so Cirroc would barely feel a thing, and all priests knew enough of Restoration to immediately heal the tattoos.

The ceremony was just being finished off when a clipped tenor, rich with the accents of the na-Totambu, cut into the silence following the priest’s last blessing. “He’ll be needing this.”

A man, of medium height, with close-cropped black hair, warm ochre-brown complexion weathered from the elements, and a neat goatee threaded with grey exited the sanctum. He wore a white shirt and maroon vest tucked into grey pants and in his hands was a golden-hilted nimcha that held a presence more substantial than its slim blade would suggest.

Beroc was the first to kneel, then the priest who also pressed Cirroc’s shoulder down so that he knelt, and finally Safiya. Rustem bowed slightly but didn’t kneel. The Children of Satakal knelt to no one.

“Not yet, mind you. He needs to learn the rhythm and temper of steel and the spirit sword first,” continued the god called both Sura-HoonDing and Cyrus the Restless. “But when the time comes, when wings of black darken the sky and the world stands on the blade-edge, it will be time for him to wield the Soul Sword of Prince A’Tor.”

“My lord, that is a dire prophecy,” Beroc said quietly.

“Not as dire as what I’m not sharing with you, Beroc. In about a decade or so, things will be… interesting.” Cyrus placed the sword in Safiya’s hands, folding her fingers gently over it. “Mortals plan and Sep laughs. Gods plan and He laughs the harder.”

“So Cirroc’s some hero of prophecy?” Rustem asked. “I had an ancestor like that and it fell out poorly for him. I don’t want that for my son.”

“Martin Septim was an idiot. He should have lit the Dragonfires first and then worried about his coronation.” Cyrus shrugged slightly. “Cirroc is what Cirroc is – the Champion of the Yokudan Gods. We can’t allow the world to be shaped to the liking of other powers without having a hand in it.”

“My lord,” spoke the priest of Leki, “You speak of a war in heaven?”

“As above, so below. The Empire is bleeding out and Talos is putting up one hell of a fight to avoid dissolution. The powers of the Druadachs and the old Nord gods are stirring. When the Snow Tower lies broken, kingless, bleeding, that is the time Cirroc must go to Skyrim.”

The god was already turning back towards the sanctum. “Purity is a fine thing on the field of honour but in the arras, it is the skills of the assassin that changes the world. Remember, ‘A thrust is elegant, and a cut is powerful, but sometimes the right action is a head-butt’.”

Before they could say anything else, he was gone.

Beroc sighed explosively. “Well, that just proves what we need to do next.”

“What’s that?” Safiya asked as she cradled the Soul Sword like a babe.

“Time is now,” Beroc said grimly. “We must set our Ephemeral Feint into motion before the Empire even knows to strike.”

“Finally,” Rustem said with a grin. “Where do I start?”


	8. The Last of the Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of child abuse. Last chapter of this story.

_4E 196_

“We’ve identified who’s trying to get Mede assassinated.”

“One of his many cousins?” Rustem asked, popping the cork on his ale.

“Yes,” confirmed Jubal, sipping from his own cup of wine. “Armand Motierre. He has plans of killing the Emperor and marrying the Imperial Heir.”

“Okay, that’s disgusting.”

“Agreed.” Jubal smirked. “We only have to look at the na-Totambu of Stros M’kai as to why cousin marriage is wrong.”

Even the Crowns in the room laughed. The nobility of Stros M’kai were descended from Iszara, sister to Sura-HoonDing, and tried to preserve that connection almost at all costs. It made them notorious even among their own faction.

“He’s trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood,” Jubal continued when the laughter died down.

“Under Astrid, they’ve gone from bad to worse. No Listener since Bravil, I’ve heard. No one knows where the Night Mother’s body is,” reported one of the other Children.

“Dawnstar,” reported another who worked as a sailor at times. “Cicero the Keeper – who I’m fairly sure is touched by Sheogorath – transported her body there.”

“The old Sanctuary,” Jubal confirmed. “That explains why Motierre hasn’t been able to contact them directly. No Listener, no Black Sacrament will work.”

“Well, damn,” Rustem said, taking another drink of ale. “What do we do now?”

No one answered because every window of the Rusty Cup suddenly became outlined in flame.

Rustem grabbed his naginata and cast Oakflesh, trying to clear the way to the door, but the door had been jammed from the outside. When Children tried to escape via window, they were pushed back inside by spears. Few of them had any affinity for sorcery and by the time Rustem had managed to stumble into the cellar, his throat closed from the smoke, most of the screaming had stopped. He welcomed the soft darkness taking him once more.

He awoke in the Temple of Mowhra, one of the priestesses rebandaging his burns. There were tears and rage in the healer’s eyes and by the end of his pallet, Cirroc was sitting facing the door, the Soul Sword in his hands. “Others?” he managed to rasp.

The silence from the pair of them said it all.

It wasn’t until several days later that Rustem discovered what happened. Gaius Maro the Elder, the bastard son of Mede himself, had gotten wind of the same rumours as the Children had and knowing the grudge the Redguard assassins held, sent agents to infiltrate a criminal gang to eliminate the danger. Since it wasn’t commonly known the Rusty Cup was the informal headquarters of the Children, the gang simply thought it was going to be the destruction of some property – and people – the owner found inconvenient. When they learned the truth, they handed the Penitus Oculatus agents over to Safiya themselves.

“The word is going out for those who have retired from the Children to take up their duties once more, but it will be a long time coming,” Beroc reported gravely as he sat by Rustem’s bedside in Safiya’s house.

Rustem coughed and spat into a bowl. “I’m… not good… at rebuilding.”

“We noticed,” Beroc said with a flash of humour.

Rustem returned the smile weakly. It hurt too much to chuckle at the moment. “Agents?”

“Sung like songbirds. Maro didn’t send his best and brightest.” Beroc sighed and shook his head. “We can do nothing. The Empire will just deny it. But they used Direnni Fire.”

That explained why the fire hadn’t died down.

“Motierre… still looking.” Every breath was torture. “He wants assassin… He’ll get one.”

“Rustem, you’re nowhere near ready to fight!” Safiya said from her place on the other side.

“Will be. By time… get… to Dawnstar.”

Beroc nodded. “Yes. The healers say the damage can be repaired. A long boat ride would be perfect for it, if you remember to take the medicines.”

“I could go,” Cirroc offered. “They attacked priests of the God of Everything. I’m a Champion of Satakal too.”

“NO!” Rustem shouted hoarsely. Then he spent the next few minutes coughing.

“No,” Beroc repeated. “This is your father’s fight, Cirroc. I suspect he’ll have to join the Brotherhood.”

“But-“

“There’s a werewolf in the Brotherhood but I don’t think anyone would call him a wolf-lord,” Safiya interrupted gently. “You are meant for other things, my son. Your father can fight his own battles still.”

No one mentioned that despite his great talent, Cirroc was still only a first-rank Ansei, still half-trained by the sword-singers’ standards.

“My fight,” Rustem rasped. “Will… swallow… Emperor’s… world-skin.”

“It was what you were ever born to do,” Beroc agreed. “Now heal. You can’t swallow if you can’t breathe properly.”

…

“Lovely place you got here. I especially _loved_ the ape-thing in the tunnel. I hope it wasn’t your pet. I had to kill it.”

Cicero, in all his life, had never been snuck up on by another person since he joined the Dark Brotherhood. So waking up to an admittedly handsome Redguard with long iron-grey hair in multiple braids and bright blue eyes with a fearsome bladed spear in his hand was a bit of a shock.

“If Astrid has sent you here to kill poor Cicero, Mother will be most displeased,” he said, grabbing his knife.

The stranger’s smile was a sideways one. “Mother told me to tell you that darkness rises when silence dies.”

Cicero dropped his knife with his jaw. “The Binding Words!”

“So she told me.”

The Keeper could hardly stay in bed when the Listener was here! Cicero leapt out of bed and capered around gleefully. “A Listener! Oh thank Sithis! Poor Cicero has been alone for so long!”

“I know. All the Cyrodiil Sanctuaries were destroyed.” The Listener’s voice was hoarse, as if he’d breathed in a lot of smoke, and there were burn scars on his olive-bronze skin. “The Penitus Oculatus just finished burning out the Children of Satakal in Hammerfell. Astrid’s Sanctuary is the last in Tamriel.”

“We can start one here,” Cicero suggested brightly.

“Perhaps. Astrid’s got a powerful political connection I’d rather not piss off.” The Redguard laid his bladed spear against a wall as Cicero pulled on his jester garb. “For the moment, I’ll need to work with her. There’s a Black Sacrament being performed for the Emperor and I owe that bastard a world of pain.”

Cicero giggled. There was a Listener! The Brotherhood would be right and good once more.

…

Rustem closed the door to the Arentino house. Aventus was asleep from a sleeping potion and he’d left some food there for the poor boy. Wasn’t much else he could do until this Grelod was dead.

_Unless…_ He followed the dark, dank streets of Windhelm to the Palace of the Kings. Blocky and ugly, it truly was a home that fit Sigdrifa’s soul. She should be asleep now but perhaps someone else could do something for Aventus. Satakal knew he couldn’t return to the orphanage, even after Grelod died. There would be too much trauma.

Even at this relatively late hour, there were a couple Nords drinking at the high table in the Great Hall. One of them was a big burly young man with Sigdrifa’s colouring and Ulfric’s rugged features, the other a rangier blond man with the hard eyes of an experienced warrior. “You better hope your mother doesn’t find out,” the blond was telling the black-haired one. “Bar brawl’s one thing, but breaking Rolff’s nose over a Dunmer barmaid is another.”

“He had no right to say those things,” remarked the younger Nord in a deep bass. “The Dunmer live here too, you know.”

“I know. But your parents…” The blond gave Rustem a hard glance. “Can I help you, Redguard? If you’re looking for work, check with Jorleif in the morning.”

“That isn’t just any Redguard, Ralof,” the boy said quietly. “How many Redguards do you know fight with an Akaviri naginata?”

“Only the one-“ Ralof went a little pale and his hand drifted towards his sword.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Rustem rasped soothingly. “There’s a young kid at the Arentino house who can’t go back to the orphanage in Riften because, well, the old woman who runs it could teach the Shieldmaidens a thing or two about cruelty. I’ve got him sleeping off a potion and left him some food. Can you get the poor lad somewhere else to stay until Grelod’s dealt with?”

“Silfnar could use an apprentice cook,” Sigdrifa’s son said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve heard of Grelod. They call Honorhall the Thief’s Nursery because so many of the orphans join the Guild.”

“Bjarni,” Ralof said carefully. “Aventus has done the Black Sacrament.”

“I’m sure my mother did it the first time she set things up with Astrid,” Bjarni said dismissively. “Grelod’s getting what’s coming to her but there’s a traumatised child living in a charnel house. I’ll be damned before I let the poor kid suffer more.”

“Wouldn’t think an assassin would care,” Ralof said to Rustem, a hint of challenge to his tone.

“I had a daughter grow up in an Imperial Workhouse because none of her family were there to protect her,” Rustem retorted flatly. “My own father was a piece of shit. I swallow the lives of those who deserve it, sunshine, not the lives of children.”

Bjarni rose to his feet. “Take me to this place. I’ll have him in a bed within the hour.”

Ralof stood up too. “I’m not letting you go with Rustem Aurelius on your own.”

“The more, the merrier,” Rustem said with a toothy grin.

They managed to extract the sleeping boy and install him in a small bed that Bjarni had dragged from the private quarters of the Palace. Rustem marvelled that a child of Sigdrifa’s could be so gentle and compassionate.

“Stay around until he wakes so he isn’t alarmed,” Bjarni suggested softly.

“I don’t think your mother would be thrilled about that,” Rustem pointed out.

“I couldn’t give two shits what my mother thinks when it comes to children.” The subdued anger in Bjarni’s tone told Rustem plenty. “I had a sister who grew up in an Imperial Workhouse and even now is trapped in Bruma because Mede still fears the Aurelii.”

“Egil said Torygg’s going to summon her to Skyrim when he’s High King as his court wizard,” Ralof said with a furrowed brow.

“Torygg might plan that but I don’t think his Imperial handlers will allow it.” They left the small room adjoining the kitchen. “We should have raided Bruma and gotten her out of there years ago.”

“Yes, because kidnapping a Synodic mage with no reason to trust any of us would go down _so_ well,” Ralof said dryly. “You know we’re not quite ready.”

“Twenty years and you’re not ready to throw the Empire out?” Rustem asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Ulfric swore an oath to Istlod. We need him to die first,” Ralof answered bluntly.

“Fair enough. But the Empire’s going to be a bit distracted soon.” Rustem reached out and squeezed Bjarni’s shoulder. Good gods, what did they feed the boy as a child? He was on the far side of six feet! “Congratulations, you’re not a complete piece of shit. Given your maternal ancestry, that’s a bloody miracle.”

Ralof snorted softly in what sounded like agreement. “For the assassin son of a madman, you’re not so bad yourself, Rustem.”

“I’m touched.” They returned to the Great Hall. “If I’m staying around, don’t suppose you got any Barley-Beard ale?”

The expression on Sigdrifa’s face when she walked out of the private quarters to see her son sharing ale and breakfast with Rustem was almost as good as her fainting when he drew the Sword of the Septims. He lifted his bottle of ale – homebrewed because the Barley-Beard was saved for important occasions – in salute and managed to suppress his smirk.

“We have a new apprentice cook,” Bjarni said blandly. “We will also need a new administrator for Honorhall Orphanage in a few days because the current one will be removed due to, ah, personal issues.”

“Astrid won’t be impressed if you take one of her jobs,” Sigdrifa finally said.

“Astrid can learn to live with it if she wants the last Child of Satakal on her side,” Rustem said softly. “The Penitus Oculatus burned us out in Elinhir.”

“Maro. That son of a bitch.” Sigdrifa sounded almost sympathetic. “But why are you here, Rustem?”

“We don’t want to upset Aventus when the poor boy wakes up. Your son Bjarni offered me breakfast in the meantime.” Rustem allowed himself just a little smirk.

“Bjarni always did prefer low company,” Sigdrifa observed sarcastically as she joined them at the table.

“That was unworthy of you.” There was an edge to Bjarni’s voice that sent Sigdrifa white-lipped with… yep, anger. Twenty or so years and she really hadn’t changed. “I invited him here as a guest because he showed more concern for a child than you did.”

Oh yes, there was definitely something there. Given Sigdrifa’s sterling maternal qualities, Rustem could make a few educated guesses.

“I’ll go wake Aventus and let him know he’s safe,” he said as he rose, swallowing the last of his ale. “Then it’s off the Rift. You better get used to me in Skyrim, Sigdrifa, because I’m going to be here for a while.”

“Don’t fuck things up for me, Rustem.”

“Why bother? You do such a good job of it yourself.”

He wouldn’t need to wake Aventus up if Sigdrifa’s curses behind him were anything to go by. He smiled. Just like old times.

Vengeance was his and would be his, for he was the Red Hand and the Listener. Long would his enemies lament.

As it should be. As it would be.


End file.
